Brothers 'Til the End
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: Set after The Sign of Four and deals with the events surrounding Dr Watson's mysterious brother. All for one and one for all/ My brother and my friend/ What fun we have/ The time we share/ Brothers 'til the end.
1. Prologue

_**A/N** - Hello dear readers! The plot of this story came from me and_ Poseidon God of the Seas_, __and originally we were going to write it together. However due to the fact that he's too busy at university to be a good brother, I was forced to take on the burden._

**_Poseidon's Addendum _**_- This story is set in two times: the past *and* the present, depending on your perspective. The important thing is that you don't get confused.__ P.S. I'M THE BEST BROTHER.  
_

**_Me_**_- Yeah. That's what I've got to deal with._

_Anyway this story is set directly after SIGN, and deals with the mystery surrounding Watson's brother._

_REVIEWS ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED. Thank you._

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_Prologue_

_**Watson**_

"For me there still remains the cocaine bottle."

I watched as Sherlock Holmes injected that horrid substance into his arm, but this time I did not voice my disapproval of his habit aloud, for I was thinking back to the last time I had done so. I pulled out my brother's pocket-watch and turned it over in my hands.

When I had handed it to Holmes, before Miss Morstan had arrived, it was not, as I had told him, merely as an exercise for his mental faculties. The watch had arrived that very morning, and I was eager to see what he could tell me.

As he related his deductions about my brother's unhappy past, that which I already knew, I felt a faint hope rise within me. Could it be true? Really?

Of course not. I was foolish to have dared hope that Henry might still be- well. It was of no consequence anyhow. It could not possibly have been my brother who had sent the watch. For a brief moment I had entertained the thought that it might have been Holmes himself who had sent it, starved as he was for problems at which he could set his great mind to but no, that was just another foolish, desperate thought.

I stood abruptly, clutching the watch tight in my hand. It did not matter who had sent it - Henry was gone. I walked to my desk and shoved it in a drawer. Holmes watched me through half closed eyes, his expression vague and dreamy, affected already by the drug pumping its way through his bloodstream. I headed for the door.

"Retiring already?"

I did not answer his query with anything more than a cursory jerk of my head, before heading to my room.

That night I dreamed.


	2. Chapter 1 - A Mere Poet's Dream

_**A/N - **As the prologue was short, here's the first chapter as well! Aren't I a nice person? Don't I deserve a nice review for my efforts? _

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"_**The brotherhood of man is not a mere poet's dream: it is a most depressing and humiliating reality" - Oscar Wilde**_

_Chapter 1 - A Mere Poet's Dream_

_**Watson**_

"_Come on John, keep up!"_

_I am running fast along the bank of the stream which flows close to our home. My older brother, no doubt slowing his pace so it is a little closer to mine, runs just ahead of me. The grass feels soggy beneath my feet, soaked by the stream lapping at its edges._

_I know where we are going. The water runs through a wood and in the wood lies a conveniently placed thicket of trees, the inside of which, we discovered several years ago, can be accessed through a slight manipulation of the branches and which is just large enough to comfortably accommodate two young boys._

_When we have reached our secret den Henry flops down onto the (thankfully dry) grass and I copy._

"_You know John," he says, his Scottish accent weaker than my own since he started going to that public school in London, "I reckon that Paw's really sick."_

"_But... the doctor said there was nothing wrong with him."_

_Henry snorts derisively. "The doctor here's a pure bampot! I spoke to someone in London and they reckon that he's got- well, that doesn't matter. The point is, he's ill."_

"_But," I reply with a furrowed brow, my eight year old's brain not quite able to cope with the thought that a grown up in such a position as the doctor could be wrong, "Why's Paw go to him if he's no good?"_

"_Because- because not all doctors _are _good John," says Henry. _

_I am not so much confused by this, as saddened. "Oh... well why doesn't he listen to you then?"_

"_Doesn't think I'm worth listening to I guess," he mutters. Suddenly he sits up straight, "But I'll show him John. One day I'll be a doctor."_

"_A doctor?" I am less than enthusiastic about this new found ambition._

"_What's wrong with that?" _

"_It's just... well it's just not as good as being a pirateor an explorer..."_

_Henry laughs. "You do know though, that a pirate gets all kinds of horrible diseases like scurvy - and a doctor gets to sew people up?"_

_I gasp in awe. "_Sew?! _Like mother sews? But sewing _people?!"

"_Yup," he grins at my amazement. "Feeling a bit keener on my idea then?"_

"_Yeah!"_

"_Will you become a doctor too then?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_No matter what?"_

"_No matter what!"_

_Suddenly everything changes._

_It's dark. There are no trees, no grass, no stream. Just dust, desert, and the sound of my brother's voice._

_"Will you come with me John?"_

"I- I can't-"

_"Will you?"_

"No, Henry I-"

"_Please John."_

"I'm sorry but-"

"_You promised John."_

"Please I- I didn't-"

"_You said, "No matter what". I _need _you John."_

"No, no I-"

"_Please John."_

"I can't Henry-"

"_John."_

"Don't-"

"_John."_

"Please-"

"_John."_

"-forgive me Henry."

"_JOHN!"_

My eyes fly open and I sit up, breathing heavily. I clutch my bedclothes around myself. _It was a dream, _I tell myself. _Only a dream..._

If only that were true.


	3. Chapter 2 - Stretch Out a Helping Hand

**A/N **- _Greetings once more! Um... I'm going to be honest, this fic hasn't gotten as many readers as some of my others, probably due to my appalling skill in writing summaries which hook people in. So those of you who leave reviews are GREATLY appreciated - I've PMed all the signed reviewers, but thanks as well to _Anna _who was anonymous. _

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"_**Condemn none: if you can stretch out a helping hand, do so. If you cannot, fold your hands, bless your brothers, and let them go their own way." - Swami Vivekananda **_

_Chapter 2 - Stretch Out a Helping Hand_

**Holmes**

To me sleeping has always been, and still remains, a peculiarity. What is it which makes all us animals crave sleep so? Surely if we have food enough we have energy enough and yet, this is not the case. I myself have often striven to survive without sleep and, despite Watson's multiple protests, managed it for several days at a time. The downside to this is, unfortunately, that after the end of a sleepless stint I find myself bone weary.

Thus it was that after Watson departed to his bedroom, I too realised just how exhausted I was, and with what seemed to be an immense effort I hauled myself out of my armchair and into my bedroom, where I sank gratefully upon the mattress.

I crawled beneath my covers and was just closing my eyes when I heard something from the floor above. The noise came from Watson's room and I strained my ears to make it out.

At first when I recognised the sound as a low moaning, I began to sit up - but then the muffled creaking of bed-springs made itself heard and I lowered myself back down. I had been fearful my flatmate were in some kind of danger, but if he were tossing and turning on his bed, that was clearly not the case. He faced only memories of danger - or so I assumed.

I had never taken it upon myself to ask after, or even mention, Watson's nightmares aloud. To do so, I knew, might strike a blow upon his pride. I had strong suspicions it was his wartime experiences which prompted them, but I had no way to be certain. There were certain things, however - a soothing piece from my violin, or perhaps just a marked absence of the small explosions which could become so frequent during my experiments - which must have made him realise I was not completely blind, or deaf, to his night terrors. Indeed I even believe that my combination of efforts may have contributed slightly to the peaceful nights he had, in more recent years, experienced.

Which was precisely why I wondered at the contents of his dreams tonight. Something must have disturbed him, or given him thought to remember that which had done so in nightmares previously.

Reaching the conclusion that there was little I could do in way of discovery until morning, I turned over and fell into my own, much needed slumber.

* * *

The next morning I entered the living room and was unsurprised to see that Watson was nowhere to be seen. I sat down at the breakfast table and pulled a plate of toast toward me. Food is another of those irritatingly necessary habits I occasionally forego, but today I was ravenous, having neglected my stomach in favour of our most recent case. I set to work demolishing the food before me. I was around halfway through my second bowl of porridge when Watson entered.

The bags under his eyes concurred with the conclusions I had drawn last night and though he was dressed, he still retained the rumpled look of one who has just rolled out of bed. He headed immediately for the coffee pot on the table.

"Good morning," I said. He continued to drink deep from his mug. "Or perhaps, not. I perceive you had a troubled night."

He gave a yawn, half muffled behind his hand, before replying with a wry grin, "However did you deduce it Holmes?"

I gave a wan half-smile in return, and watched him sit down. He took one of the few remaining pieces of toast, raised it to his mouth, but then noticed me watching him and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I cleared my throat. "If the noises I heard from your room last night are anything to go by, I can also deduce _why_ your sleep was disturbed. " I had tried to phrase it as delicately as I could, but still Watson narrowed his eyes. "I was wondering if, perhaps, your dreams might be due to-"

"If your own sleep was disturbed last night," he interrupted, "then I apologise. However it really is noneof your business Holmes."

For a moment I did not know how to respond; I was used to an open, honest Watson. This version of my flatmate was far more difficult to cope with. I was saved from having to come up with a reply however, by Mrs Hudson, who at that moment knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

"There's a man here to see you Dr Watson," she said to my friend. "A Mr Rothermere... Shall I send him up?"

Watson frowned, obviously attempting to place the name. "Certainly Mrs Hudson."

I regarded my friend, who had begun to clear the breakfast table. "Would you prefer that I leave?"

"Yes, actually Holmes that would be most useful," he replied, and I admit I was a little shocked. I hid this however, and stood.

"As you wish."

I left for my room, but only briefly. As soon as I heard footsteps going into the living room, I crept out and followed. Fortunately this Mr Rothermere, whoever he was, had left the door open a crack.

"Mr Rothermere I presume," I heard Watson greet the visitor. "My landlady told me your name but I confess, I do not remember you..?"

"We have never met, Doctor Watson," another voice, presumably Mr Rothermere's, said. He sounded like an older man, probably middle aged, though it was nearly impossible to place an age without seeing the person in question. "My name is Michael Rothermere. If you don't mind me asking, where is your flatmate? On some case or another?"

"No, he's in his room. I thought you would appreciate some privacy, but if you prefer I could-?"

"No, no... that's quite alright," Mr Rothermere interrupted. I wondered whether I could look through the crack between the door and the doorway without making my presence known. "Privacy will do perfectly. I was wondering if I might ask you some questions?"

"Questions? What about?" I edged closer around toward the crack. "Why?"

"About your time in the army," he said. I put my eye carefully up to the crack, poised to withdraw it should either of the two men glance my way. "I'm a journalist you see, and I was hoping to write an article for _The Times_." Judging from the way he was dressed and the ink stains on his hands, he was telling the truth. Unfortunately, I only had a sidelong view of the man. "I thought it would be better if I could include some reminiscences from someone... well from somebody _well known._ When writing a retrospective piece on such a... tragic battle, it is best to provide a familiar name, who people can relate to."

I could see from Watson's change in posture that he was surprised - and perhaps even a little flattered. "I'd like to help Mr Rothermere-"

"Excellent!"

"-but I'm not sure of how much help I can be." I watched as Watson offered the journalist an armchair - my armchair! the cheek of it! - before sitting down in his own.

"I don't have many questions..." Rothermere replied carefully, "You were with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, yes?"

"Yes," Watson spoke cautiously. Now they had moved in front of the fireplace, I could just about make out his facial expression, though it was a good deal more difficult to do so with the journalist's. "But when I reached India I was dispatched to Maiwand, with the 66th Berkshire Regiment."

"And you served under Colonel Sharpe, correct?"

"Yes." I noticed a slight shift in Watson's expression. It appeared that Rothermere had too.

"And what was that like?" he asked quickly. "Did you enjoy working under him?"

"Well, he... he-" Watson broke off, then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, might we move on to another question?"

"Oh, certainly," Rothermere said, and Watson looked relieved. "It was only- well, never mind."

"Only... what?"

"Well," Rothermere leant forward in a conspiratorial manner, "some of my... other sources, have told me that the Colonel was a very difficult man to work with. Do you agree with that?"

"Well, he... I mean, most commanding officers _have _to make... hard decisions..."

"But not to the extent of sending dozens of soldiers, needlessly, to their deaths."

Watson looked sharply up from where he had previously been staring at the floor, "Who told you that?"

The journalist leaned back in his armchair. He sounded smug. "I cannot reveal my sources. But you _do _agree, do you not?"

"I- there were some decisions which weren't very- which may have been prevented, perhaps if he-"

"So you do agree?"

"Well... _yes_-"

"Do you think that the Colonel could, in some ways, be considered a murderer?"

"No! Of course not I-!" Watson broke off. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet; dangerous: "I think you should leave."

There was a brief silence. "Leave?"

"Yes. Leave," I watched as Watson got to his feet. I knew I ought to return to my bedroom, but curiosity got the better of me. "Right now."

"Well of course, Doctor," Rothermere also stood. "I think I've gotten all that I need."

"What do you mean?" But Rothermere had begun to walk away. "What did you need?"

The journalist didn't respond, but gave a small smile. I realised too late that he had reached the door, and flung myself backwards - to no avail. He stared down at me, amused. "It appears, Doctor Watson, that your flatmate has been eavesdropping. Our discussion was not so "private" after all." With those parting words, and a nod in my direction, he departed. I scrambled to my feet.

"Holmes," I heard Watson's voice, laced with anger, from the doorframe and turned reluctantly to face it. "How _dare _you listen in to a conversation when I _specifically _asked you- when you even _offered-_" he broke off, angrily, shaking his head. "Never mind," he growled, and turned back into the living room,"I am going to visit Miss Morstan."

"Watson," I followed him into the living room. "What exactly did that journalist want to know?"

"I am sure you heard well enough, Holmes," he muttered, grabbing his hat from his desk.

"Yes, I heard him ask about your time as a soldier and about your superior, Colonel Sharpe," I mused, following as he walked back out of the living room. "I suppose a more accurate question would be: why didn't you wish to discuss those topics with him?"

He paused at the top of the staircase, and turned back to face me, his fury evident once again, "Holmes, as I believe I have already explained to you today - it is _none _of your business. I will see you later."

Later, as I sat smoking and thinking in my armchair, I reflected that I really knew little about The Battle of Maiwand, or indeed the Anglo-Afghan war, at all. I resolved to investigate further. And I knew exactly where to start.


	4. Chapter 3 - In Solitude

"_**Only in solitude do we find ourselves; and in finding ourselves, we find in ourselves all our brothers in solitude." - Miguel de Unamuno **_

_Chapter 3 - In Solitude Do We Find Ourselves_

**Mary**

When I arrived at Simpson's restaurant I spotted Doctor Watson (_John, I had to remember to call him John now_) at a table for two in the corner.

"Good afternoon," he greeted me, standing and pulling out a chair.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said as soon as we had both sat down. "Elizabeth - Mrs Forrester's oldest - needed some help with her tacking and I- er..." I trailed off. John was looking at me in the most curious fashion, as though he had just seen me clearly for the first time. "Are you alright?"

My words seemed to snap him out of his strange reverie and he shifted slightly, nodding, "Yes, yes I'm fine... What were you saying?"

"I was just apologising," I said. A waiter poured us both some wine.

"Why?"

"For... for being late," I explained, a little puzzled. I did not know John well, but he had struck me as a man with a great talent for listening. Therefore his question seemed out of character - though, reflecting on it, what right did I possess to judge his character?

"Oh, yes well... so was I, as a matter of fact," he reassured me. "I ran into... someone." His expression darkened. "Unfortunately I lost track of the time..."

"Well, clearly it can happen to the best of us," I half heartedly joked. He did not laugh, or even smile. Instead his face turned thoughtful. "Doctor Wats-" I stopped myself. "_John_ - are you sure that you're alright?"

He gave a hollow smile, "Yes, Miss Morstan. Our conversation just gave me reason to think of... unhappier things."

"I understand. And John," I smiled again and reached my hand out to where his lay on the table between us. "I really would prefer that you call me Mary."

He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand. "I'm not sure that would be such a good idea." He took a deep breath. "I have had to... rethink some things, Miss Morstan."

"What do you mean?" I was completely nonplussed. "What things?"

"I... I can't marry you," he said. "It just- it wouldn't be right. I thought that perhaps, with the treasure gone..." he shook his head, "but truly it... it makes no difference. We cannot be together."

I stared, feelings of shock and rejection bubbling within me. I could feel tears stinging at the edges of my eyes, but pushed them back determinedly. "You mean that you... you do not... love me?"

"No!" he cried fervently, and yet more feelings of confusion assaulted me. "Of course I love you - how could anyone not? But you do not deserve me, Miss Morstan."

"Excuse me, but... That's ridiculous!" I exclaimed, earning quite a few looks from tables around us. I lowered my voice and continued in a fierce whisper, "I love you, John - yes I _shall _call you John - and unless you were lying last night, you love me too. _Were _you lying?" I challenged him.

He smiled sadly at me. "No. I wasn't lying."

"Well then... There is no more to discuss," I concluded.

"Miss Mors-"

"_Mary,_" I insisted, but he ignored me.

"Miss Morstan, any man would be the- the luckiest man in the world to marry you," he said earnestly. "And you deserve so much _better _than what I can give you."

"I don't want any man in the world," I replied. "I love _you._"

"You do not know me."

It wasn't the suddenness of his words which shocked me, but the truth I heard behind them. I didn't know him. Not really. I had never felt more sure of anything in my life as I had of this love and yet... How could I be so sure, when I barely knew the man?

I could see by the way John was looking at me that he had seen my doubt. "You may not want to admit it, but you know it's true," he said. I opened my mouth, about to protest, but he got there first, "Please just... think about what I've said."

Silence fell, broken only by the tinkling of wine glasses and the low buzz of chatter around us. I didn't know how to reply.

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**A/N - **_Eurgh, romance. I apologise for my probably awful writing of it, and I hope I did Mary's POV justice-ish.  
_


	5. Chapter 4 - The Man Who Is My Brother

**A/N - **_Last day before school, so here you go! This hasn't been beta read and I haven't checked it through so please report any mistakes!_

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"_**There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother... Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too." ― Anna Quindlen**_

_Chapter 4 - The Man Who Is My Brother_

**Holmes**

"I do not know why you are here Sherlock," my brother grumbled. "You could have found out about Maiwand easily enough yourself, and without bothering me!"

He was sat in his armchair, looking greatly irritated. I was not surprised. I had, after all, interrupted what would surely have been a day of silence in the Diogenes Club. My brother has never been a great lover of activity.

I sighed impatiently. "Because, _dear _brother," I said, "you can give me far more reliable information than I could otherwise discover. And far faster than if I attempted to retrieve it from another source."

"Very well then," he muttered, shifting his great weight into a comfier position within his armchair. "What would you like to know?"

"As much as you can tell me. I understand the battle didn't go well for Britain."

Mycroft gave a mirthless snort. "That is an understatement Sherlock. The battle was... well, for lack of a better word, let us say _fiasco._" He let out a heavy sigh. "Numerous wounded, even more dead. And, of course, we were not successful - the Afghans won. And-" he hesitated, "-there were other issues."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He heaved another sigh. "I need, of course, hardly tell you that all of this is completely confidential. Many men have worked very hard to keep what I am about to tell you out of the public knowledge."

"Mycroft, I need hardly tell _you _that I am a detective - and am, therefore, used to dealing in secrets."

"Of course Sherlock," he muttered under his breath. I watched as he shifted in his seat, cleary considering how best to put forth what he had to say. Eventually he sank back and began to speak, "Before - before the actual battle, that is - there was a-" he struggled for the word for a few seconds. "-well, an event. Several soldiers were planning to abandon the army."

"Mutiny?"

"Exactly. Under the command of Colonel-"

"Colonel Sharpe?" I interrupted.

Mycroft looked at me curiously for a few moments before answering. "Yes. Yes indeed. They planned to steal horses, weapons and other equipment, before fleeing to India."

"But they were caught?"

"Not quite," Mycroft said. "From what I can remember of the reports there was a gunshot, which woke the whole camp, in turn leading to more shots. This of course, scuppered the entire plan. They still fled - but with nothing. No horses, food; not even weapons. It would seem they died, most likely captured by the Afghans and unable to defend themselves. They were never denounced as traitors. As I have already mentioned, we didn't wish the public to start asking questions."

"A gunshot?" I asked. "Fired by who?"

"Nobody knows," he said. "But... the colonel was discovered dead."

"They shot him?"

Mycroft sighed again, rubbing his eyes exasperatedly. "It was all a confused mess Sherlock. The army thought the gunshot meant an attack, and their panic... well, their panic eventually led to the Battle of Maiwand. So as you can imagine, no one is completely sure on the timeline of events - it seems likely one of the mutineers was the murderer, but in all the chaos it could have been anyone. And unfortunately we cannot be entirely sure as to _who _the mutineers were - so many were killed or went missing in action."

I mulled over this information a few moments and as I did so, Mycroft stood and went to a nearby cabinet. He sifted through a few sheets before pulling one out and handing it to me. "I think you may find this useful Sherlock, if you are interested in learning more."

I looked and saw a name and address.

"He is the only soldier from the 66th Berkshires currently residing in London. I thought it better not to put your flatmate on there," he added, with a slight smile, "I would have hoped you were aware of his address."

The ex-soldier I visited was a Mr Theodore Smith. It was written under his name and address that he had been wounded in the Battle of Kandahar, and when I was shown through into the living room I saw that his left leg was missing. He ordered his housekeeper to bring us tea and gestured me forward to sit down.

"What can I do for you Mr Holmes?"

"I wanted to ask you some questions," I replied, sitting across from him. "Questions about the death of Colonel Sharpe and the... events surrounding it."

"The mutiny you mean?" He grinned as the housekeeper entered and started distributing tea. "Perhaps it surprises you I know of it, Mr Holmes, but most of us figured out what had gone on. Some of it anyway."

"And what exactly had gone on?" I enquired, taking my teacup and cradling it in my hands

"Few of the soldiers decided they'd had enough," Smith shrugged. "Ain't exactly surprising, Mr Holmes. Colonel Sharpe was... well. Let's just say the mutineers weren't the only ones who wanted to kill him. The rest of us were just able to exercise some self control."

"You do think _they _killed him then?"

"Mr Holmes the Colonel sent many men, _good _men, needlessly to their deaths," Smith said frankly. "We complained about him, we dreamt of the day when he'd be shot in action... Not that he ever even _saw _action," he added bitterly. "Coward..."

"And this was something on which all the men felt strongly?"

"Most definitely," he confirmed. Then he set aside his own teacup and leaned forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, "If you want to know what I really think, I reckon they were trying to steal equipment and the Colonel walked in on them. One of them must've panicked. And whoever that was... well, I pity the poor sod." He leant back in his chair and picked up his tea, letting the effect of his words sink in as he took a sip.

"Thank you," I said, "You've given me a lot to think about." I stood to leave but then stopped. Mr Smith looked at me inquiringly. "I wonder... do you remember a soldier - well, an army surgeon - Dr Watson?"

His face immediately darkened. "Oh yes. Watson... I remember him."

"You- you didn't think much of him then?" I pushed, trying not to betray my emotion. Was I about to discover just what Watson had been hiding?

He shook his head. "It's not fair for me to say, I didn't know him long but..." he shrugged. "Sometimes you just get a feeling about somebody, you understand? He just seemed... weak. And very willing to pin blame on anyone and everyone."

"I- he- really?!" I couldn't contain my surprise. Watson - _weak?_

Smith nodded gravely. "I could see he'd turned to drink, and I could see he didn't want to be there... it happens. But an army surgeon is relied upon - he can't _afford _to be weak, because it's not just his life that's at stake. I can only wonder at just how many deaths he was responsible for..."

His words left me reeling, but I kept my exterior calm as I thanked him for his time and left.


	6. Chapter 5 - Fought Between Men

**A/N **_- I should just point out, my knowledge of the Battle of Maiwand etc is VERY limited, so don't take any of the information in here as truth. The whole mutiny thing from the last chapter is completely made up - the thing about the bullet in this chapter is, I think true. Maybe._

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**"Civil war? What does that mean? Is there any foreign war? Isn't every war fought between men, between brothers?" - Victor Hugo**

_Chapter 5 - Fought Between Men_

**Holmes**

I arrived back at Baker Street a little before Watson, and was thus removing my coat just as he swung open the door.

"Hello Holmes," he muttered, beginning to remove his own outer garments. I nodded in response, stepping aside to allow him space do so. There was a brief silence, as he hung up his coat.

I didn't know whether I ought to confront him about what I had heard from my brother and Theodore Smith. I wanted to know whether it was true, that he had been involved in either the mutiny, the Colonel's death or perhaps even both.

It was certainly possible. It explained why Watson refused to speak of his army days and it explained why he refused to speak of Colonel Sharpe to that journalist. But could it be that the John Watson I knew, and had indeed grown to respect, had once been weak - a coward?

Before I could consider the answer to this question, the voice of Watson himself broke into my thoughts.

"Look, Holmes... I want to apologise for the way I reacted earlier. Not that what you did wasn't wrong," he added hastily, "but I can understand you felt badly at being dislodged from the living room. Perhaps we can just put it behind us?"

I looked at him for a moment. I teetered on the edge of speaking out, demanding answers. But I swallowed my questions and instead replied, "Yes, of course."

He smiled, relieved. "Thank you. I've er... just had something of an argument with Mar- Miss Morstan actually, and I wasn't looking forward to having another with you."

"Oh... I am sorry to hear it," as I said this we began to climb the steps to the first floor. In truth I cared little for whatever arguments had or had not gone on between him and Miss Morstan. However I felt I ought to try and keep up some degree of regular conversation; as we entered the living room I asked, "Did she take offence at your late arrival?"

He chuckled. "No in fact-"

I heard his sharp intake of breath and felt him stiffen beside me. I glanced to his eyes, which had widened in shock, to where they were staring - his desk. It was not his desk which had so shocked him though. It was the object upon it.

A bullet. Or at least, that was what it seemed to me. It certainly held some resemblance to a bullet, but it appeared to be made of several jagged pieces of different metals all lumped together. I had never seen a bullet like this before. I could see from his expression, however, that Watson had.

"What is it, Watson?"

"I-" he turned to me, and for a second his face registered nothing but complete shock, perhaps even fear. In the next second, however, all expression had disappeared. Once again he was hiding something from me. "I have no idea."

"Yes, you do," I said at once. I was, to be frank, sick of all this secrecy. "You just don't wish to tell me."

I watched his neutral expression shift to one of anger. "Very well, Holmes," he spoke in a low voice, "It is a Jezail bullet. Of the same kind which invalided me from the army. Does that answer your question?"

"Perhaps, but it also brings up several more," I returned, just as heatedly. I had tiptoed long enough around his blasted pride! "Why is that bullet on your desk? And more importantly, why has it spurred this violent reaction from you? You may not be lying, Watson, not quite, but you are most certainly keeping something from me!"

I saw his eyes flash, but when he next spoke it was in that low, contained voice he had used before, "Do you know why the bullet looks like that, Holmes? Different scraps of metal, all shoved together?" I shook my head to indicate not. "No? No, most people don't." He looked away from me, to the bullet on his desk, his left hand clenched. "The natives of Afghanistan would gather those scraps, any scraps, and turn them into a bullet.

"When fired it shatters on impact. The scraps of metal tear into the flesh and what lies underneath, causing irreparable damage. In most, perhaps all, cases there will still remain at least some fragments of bullet in the person who was shot, causing them recurring pain for the rest of their life. That is, of course, assuming that that person has survived the shot."

He turned back to me, a defiant glare in his eyes, but I had no response to give him. I looked again to his clenched left fist... and understood.

In most, perhaps all, cases there will still remain at least some fragments of bullet...

"Watson I- I apolo-"

"I do not want for your empty platitudes Holmes," the scorn was evident in his voice, "but I had hoped for a little respect."

With this he turned on his heel and stormed upstairs to his bedroom.

My eyes were drawn back to the bullet on the desk. A dozen questions sprang into my head, each as puzzling as the last. Why had the bullet been put there? When had it been left? Who by? There was at least one thing that was clear, however.

Whoever it was, they knew exactly what Watson was hiding.


End file.
